


I Do (File Tax Returns)

by Davechicken



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, There should be an archiving warning for 'my OTP are dumbasses'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:48:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23567095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: Featuring: The Angel of Why Can't You Read My MindGuest-starring: The Demon Of Increasingly Convoluted Flirting
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 31
Kudos: 138





	I Do (File Tax Returns)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Eolyn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eolyn/gifts).



“I don’t understand.”

“It’s simple. You pay taxes. This means less tax.”

“But why would I want to pay less tax?”

“Because - because you should!”

“But I am not in financial hardship, and I want to support the community, and give back. And - well - blend in.” Aziraphale looked at the paperwork in front of him. “And I don’t think this is a particularly nice thing to do.”

Crowley shrugged. “Fine.”

“Crowley…”

“I was trying to do you a favour.”

“You were trying to make me commit tax fraud.”

“You shouldn’t even pay it! You weren’t bloody born, and you don’t vote, and you don’t use their hospitals and whatsits. So why are you even -- look, forget I mentioned anything.” Crowley snatched the pamphlets away and stormed off. 

Aziraphale sighed. It just wasn’t the proper thing. Admittedly, he didn’t really need to pay any tax at all, but he did. He also didn’t really need money to survive. He owned the bookshop. He didn’t pay any rent. He didn’t have a home, and - as Crowley pointed out - didn’t vote. So he didn’t pay council tax. (Should he?) 

But he did pay for his business, more out of custom than anything else. He’d found the paperwork to be oddly soothing and also (to begin with) titillating. He could easily earn money without ‘earning’ money, to pay for the frivolities (read: essentials) such as food and drink. But he… liked it.

It meant something, on some level, to Crowley. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have suggested it. And it was about something more than just - well - tax returns. 

Hmm.

***

Three weeks later, and Crowley had never mentioned it again. Aziraphale had tried, several times, a finger lifted and the start of words in his throat. It had always collapsed to nothing, or ‘Tea?’ or some light and empty comment instead. 

But today he was not letting it go.

“We would have to do it properly.”

“Obviously…” Crowley drawled. “Do what, though?”

“If you intend to - to - marry out of convenience. For tax reasons. You must convince the registrar that you are not being coerced, and that you know one another.”

He had been reading.

“...angel, I knew you before there was such a thing as marriage.”

“Quite, but we can’t exactly say that to them.”

Crowley snapped his fingers in demonstration. “Yes we can.”

“Well, I don’t want to. And if you want me to - to - ‘play the system game’ - or however you put it, then we must also do it my way.”

“Neither of us are actually legal people.” Crowley tilted his head. “You do remember that, don’t you? And how you got flustered when you thought you’d need to fake a new identity card before they scrapped that scheme?”

“You know I hate lying on those forms!” He truly did. Mostly because he always worried he would forget what he was supposed to ‘be’, at that particular point in time. “We do it properly, or I won’t agree to this - may I say - partially ‘wicked’ plan of yours.”

“It’s not wicked, angel.”

“You want to get married to circumvent taxation levels, and not to celebrate love and unity. You are - it is about the sanctity of--”

Crowley threw his head back onto his shoulders with the kind of moan that went on for three years. It was not enjoyable to witness. “Angel!”

“You must first show me what I would need to do, to ‘sell’ this fiction.”

“You - you think we couldn’t already?”  
The angel had no idea what that meant. But he shook his head all the same. 

“There’s plenty of places I could take you, we could come back with a bit of paper, and they’d accept it was bona fide.”

“You are not faking a wedding certificate!”

“Fine!”

“Fine!”

***

Crowley slammed down the small, apple-red box on the desk.

“What’s that?”

“Open it.”

“I asked you,” the angel grumbled, but opened it anyway. “Crowley?”

“You said you wanted to do it properly, if we’re getting fake-married, so--”

It was a gorgeous thing. Rose gold chased around in a band, and then a diamond so brilliant that--

“Is it fake?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The ring,” Aziraphale asked, as he slid the engagement band on. 

“What kind of demon do you take me for? No, it’s not a fake. The wedding might be, but the ring isn’t.”

“Well. I had to ask.”

“Not exactly the start of a good relationship if you think--”

Aziraphale put his (now ring-clad) finger over the demon’s lips. “Hush.”

“Also not good for a married couple,” Crowley mumbled, and tried to lick the tip.

***

Aziraphale couldn’t work out if he was more annoyed that they seemed to quarrel - bicker - however you liked to put it - more when they were ‘together’, or that this seemed to convince people even further that they were, indeed, ‘together’. 

Marriages should not be about quarreling. Even if the topics they disagreed about were relatively minor, and not exactly ground-breaking issues of dogma and divinely ordained plans. It wasn’t about things like ‘good will triumph over evil’ (which they had usually tried to avoid discussing unless one of them was feeling particularly ornery), but it was…

Silly things.

Like, truly silly things. 

Crowley didn’t slide the chair out for him to sit down, and Aziraphale didn’t tell him he wanted to, but when he didn’t, Aziraphale was put out.

Crowley didn’t wear a ring of his own. Admittedly, Aziraphale didn’t buy him one, but he also didn’t mention that he wanted to be bought one, or what he’d want, or--

Crowley didn’t invite him to the flat. Not since That Night. He either turned up at times that suited him, or phoned to check if he was available. And whilst Aziraphale could easily also ask about meeting up (and frequently did), it was rude to invite himself around to Crowley’s place, even if this relationship was false, and they were only trying to work out how they would - for some reason - convince the world that they were actually married. 

Because how did you put down that you were, on a legal document, if you couldn’t convince the world that you were? (Or, for that matter, yourself?)

He didn’t refer to him by anything other than ‘angel’, which he already had. He never used any other form of potential pet name (and was it really a ‘pet’ name if he **was** an angel?) and he never introduced him as ‘my’ anything. No ‘my partner’, ‘my fiance’, ‘my moon and stars and all the things between in the firmament’. 

And Aziraphale wanted those things. If he was married. It was ridiculous, and totally not necessary, and he’d been perfectly happy (mostly) with their Arrangement and then their Post-Arrangement-Arrangement, all the way until Crowley suggested this and now he was not happy! 

What was wrong with - with just going for lunches? And afternoon teas? And dinners? And brunches? And those picnics he never managed to get (even though he knew full well that Crowley enjoyed the grass and the breeze and the trees as much as he did)? 

What was wrong with seeing plays? And listening to radio dramas? Or those pod thingies? And drinking? And walks? And feeding ducks? And sitting on benches and shaping the clouds into things for one another? 

And sharing gifts? And - and - 

What, actually, was the difference? Married couples… usually cohabited. (They did not.) Were usually expected to be intimate, physically. (Again, no.) Often had children. (Definitely not.) 

But not everyone in a relationship made public displays of their affection, and frequently Crowley had implied people were more than friends, when Aziraphale hadn’t been able to distinguish anything new. All of this ‘engagement’ period had just made everything just so much more difficult and awkward and… he was miserable. 

That meant he was doing it wrong.

Obviously.

Aziraphale sat at their usual table, at the Ritz, and everything grated.

He was wearing his engagement ring, hand lifted, letting it catch the light. But how would anyone know who had given it to him? Crowley didn’t refer to him, didn’t do anything he hadn’t always done. He didn’t have any sign to show they were together, and when he smiled up at the sommelier who brought the--

“Would you stop that?” he hissed, when they walked away.

“Stop what?”

“That!”

“...can’t stop what it is, if I don’t know what it is.” Crowley’s nose wrinkled, but the crease in his brow indicated he also felt restless.

“You were making _eyes_ at the sommelier.”

“Eyes? I have glasses on.” He tilted his head, demonstrating what he meant. “What are you harping on about, angel?”

“You! You! You ask me to marry you, and - and then you act like this!”

“Like what?” 

Aziraphale was making a scene, and - and - he didn’t care! He was driving the fish fork into the tablecloth. His teeth ground together tight enough to crack nuts. 

“Like it doesn’t matter to you!”

“Doesn’t matter?” Crowley glowered. “I bloody agreed to this, didn’t I?”

“Agreed? You suggested it!”

“Agreed to the - the - rest of it!”

“What _rest of it_? You got me a ring! And then what? It’s just like before!”

“That’s my **point** , angel! We’re already bloody married! I don’t know why you don’t know that, but we’re more married than - than - salt and pepper!”

“Salt and pepper aren’t married!”

Crowley shoved the condiment holder at him. “Explain this, then!”

“There’s also vinegar in there, so unless we also have a relationship in common with someone else, your argument is completely invalid! This - this - I refuse to be treated like this!” He threw down his napkin, his skin tingling with the horrific thrill of this. 

Everyone was staring. And even if he wiped everyone’s memory, he would always _know_ they’d made this scene. Always. He was on his feet, horrified with himself, when Crowley stood up, too.

Oh no. The demon didn’t get to storm out on him, he was the one storming out! He had the idea first! How dare he try to--

Crowley had hold of his waistcoat again. A flash of memory - of longing, of love, of fear - and he frowned at the taller man, but didn’t push him off. 

“Telling you it was for tax reasons was the only way you’d agree to do it, you moron!”

“What?”

“You spent most of history telling everyone we’re not friends! If I don’t come up with some reason to ask you, you won’t say yes!”

Aziraphale’s eyes forgot what they were made to do. Actually, his whole body did. He was dimly aware it existed, but he had put it on a shelf tucked at the back, and it held up other books but it was no longer visible by any casual observer.

He just - well - existed. Without form, or time, or emotion. The world existed and was, and Aziraphale existed and was, but it was all so very far away and impossible to focus on. 

“Huh?”

“Marry me, you utter moron! For real. Screw taxes or whatever. Is that clear enough?”

Aziraphale blinked, quite without remembering why. “Will you invite me to your flat, then?”

“What?”

“We were engaged, and you never invited me in, even for coffee.”

“...you… that’s what you got upset about?”

“Amongst other things.” The angel realised, now, that the whole of the Ritz looked glassy-eyed, and he wasn’t sure if he’d done it, or Crowley. But either way, it was rather fortunate that it had happened. “I mean… you didn’t seem to… want to do anything more.”

“It took me decades to get you to accept that telephones were useful, angel.”

“...I liked the tactile sensation and intimacy of hand-written letters!”

“You see what I mean?”

“No?” Except, perhaps, he did. And didn’t want to admit it. “Can we, perhaps, have this discussion elsewhere?”

“Depends. Are we still engaged?”

“Do you still want to be?”

Crowley’s head hit his shoulder, the hands on his waistcoat tightening. “Get in the bloody car, you insufferable pillock. I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t.”

“Oh. Well. Alright, then.”

“So… my - our - place?”

Our. Yes. That would be--

“Wait, which one is that?”

***

The drive to the flat was fast, but Aziraphale was grateful for it. 

Crowley made him admit why he was crotchety, and although he didn’t want to start, when he did, he couldn’t help but reel through it all. Saying it, he knew it showed how ridiculous he was. Being annoyed that Crowley hadn’t shown him in some way that he wanted a ring, too? Feeling like he wasn’t being properly romanced and seduced? Being upset that he couldn’t tell the difference between this, and the last fifteen years or so? 

The demon snorted a few times, but it wasn’t cruel. It was… fond. Aziraphale also felt the humour, as some of the tension melted. 

When he’d done, they’d reached the parking spot, and been sitting, idling, in the Bentley for some time. Aziraphale lifted his hands, then clapped them to his knees. 

“So.”

“So.”

“Now you know… but you haven’t quite been fair with me, have you?”

Crowley’s eyes slitted, his head to one side, sizing him up. “Demon, remember?”

“If you want me to marry you - truly - then you should tell me what I’ve done to annoy you.”

“Wouldn’t say ‘annoy’. Maybe - ‘millennia of minor inconveniences and peril’.”

“Crowley!”

A hint of sharp teeth, and a flicker of tongue. “Alright. So. You’re not the quickest to adapt to new ideas. You never ask for what you really want. You are an absolute snob - and don’t tell me you aren’t - and you love getting gifts but you never give them.”

“I - I don’t?”

Crowley shook his head. “Nope. Not really. I got used to it.”

“That’s **awful**. Awful! I never got you anything? Crowley! Why do you want to marry someone as awful as me!”

“Because - well - you’re not all bad.” 

The angel looked down at his hands, wringing them over, and then he slid the ring off his finger. And held it out.

“Angel?”

“Wear this. At least until I can get you one of your own. That is… if you want to wear one?”

Crowley grinned, and he meant it, and Aziraphale decided he liked the look on Crowley’s face when he gave him things. Why hadn’t he done it before? He could make up for it, now. 

“I… felt you didn’t… want me,” the angel continued, as he slipped the ring on, to find it didn’t fit. “Oh no!”

“Wait…” Crowley undid his bolo, and slipped the ring onto the threads of it, then refastened it around his throat. “See. Just as good.”

“It looks perfect on you.”

“Yeah… well. I don’t see why you thought I didn’t want you. Bloody well followed you around the planet, didn’t I?”

“I know, but that’s… I mean… I saw how people _looked_ at you…”

“...like... ?”

“Like the handsome beast you are! And - and here’s me all soft and--”

Crowley leaned over the handbrake and kissed him. Aziraphale flushed furiously, and grabbed hold of the bolo to keep him in place. The demon could say anything he wanted, but that one action… that said so very, very much more.

And, for once, he listened. 

***

They were engaged, again. So it was alright to grab Crowley’s hand and guide him to his own front door. After all, he could hardly expect to be seduced and pampered and shown affection if he wasn’t prepared to do the same, could he?

Plus, if he didn’t, then they might dance around for another few thousand years, and Aziraphale was tired of being unhappy.

It was time to ask. And accept. And. Do all sorts of scary things, like admit you wanted something more than you already had. 

Crowley had a bedroom. Of course he did. Aziraphale had been offered it, that one night before. He’d declined, because he had no need of a bed, but now he wondered if he’d been offered simply to give him the knowledge that it was there?

How long had Crowley been talking this strange, double-layered language? Or, more specifically, how long had he been saying these particular things?

Aziraphale kissed him, confused and awkward, a few paces into the flat. He’d done gavotte-kisses. And he’d done greeting-kisses. And he’d even done tender, loving kisses without any amorous intent. But he hadn’t kissed this face, and he hadn’t kissed with… with the weird, knotting, jealous hunger. He hadn’t felt the hair around the demon’s ears crinkle below his fingertips, and he hadn’t discovered entirely new emotions and physical sensations that creeped down his spine like tiny sharded raindrops, or great, bread-kneading hands in his gut.

“I can’t believe you were jealous of other people looking at me,” Crowley laughed, as his fingers slid around and down and under his waistband and grazed the top of his butt.

Trust a demon to go right for that, and grind into him. Which helped, because Aziraphale was pretty much unable to plan or think what was the right next step. “Why?”

“I’m - yeah okay, I’m cool looking and all, but-- you know.”

“No.” He pulled back, trying not to go cross-eyed from staring at him. “What?”

“I spend all my time trying to get over their natural - y’know - revulsion.”

“Revulsion?” He huffed, and clucked at him. “You could have anyone you wanted! And it frequently seemed like you did!”

“You what?” Crowley sounded like he’d heard about the sword again. “Me?”

“You - you - tempted! And - wiles! And--”

“And… angel. Have you been _pining_ like a jaded, jealous junkie?”

“No,” he lied, and pushed his own hand down the front of Crowley’s pants. 

“Oh-HO-HO!”

“I have not,” he grumbled, with a little fire in his belly, all of a sudden. “Even though you swaggered those hips and showed that - that - arse of yours!”

Crowley was staggered by the sudden attention, falling back as Aziraphale pushed him into the wall. His hands went lower, kneading and clawing at the angel’s buttocks as Aziraphale found one very, very ready cock and started to manhandle it inside those too-tight and only-just-undone jeans. 

“A-aaaangel….?”

“With - with those lips! And that throat! And - and - you never tried to - you never once tried to seduce me, and I could see everyone who wanted to throw themselves on your cock, or whatever it was you had - and I didn’t want you to let them!”

Crowley had one leg up and around his waist, then, his hands moving to scratch at shoulders, push into hair. He was whining, and humping, and the sudden mess of hungry, insensible, scrabbling demon was intoxicatingly good. 

“W-wanted to - to - rrrrrespect yyy----yyyyoooUUUU OH FUCK ANGEL FUCK!”

“And I wanted you to do this,” he snapped, guiding his hand in paths he’d tried so hard not to imagine, pushing the images as far from his mind as he could. “Wanted you to **want** me.”

“IdoIdoIdoI---nnnnnoooooo!”

The rough handjob had Crowley twitching, jerking, and releasing in a satisfyingly short space of time. Aziraphale knew he could have probably drawn it out for longer, but wasn’t six thousand years long enough? Plus, he hadn’t wanted to lose his nerve. Had wanted to prove that - that - he could. That they could. 

And he could. There was sticky, salty come all over his hand. And a demon panting and twirled around him. 

Aziraphale stroked the clean hand through red hair, and then frowned when he felt it slide out of his reach. Except… the demon’s leg folded down, and he collapsed in a graceful heap on his knees. In front of him. 

Looking up, with open-faced affection, and a hunger that Aziraphale realised had been there, in the corners, in the shadows, all along. 

“You should have known,” the demon said, mournfully. “I should have--”

“I did,” Aziraphale replied. “But show me, all the same.”

Fingers up his thighs, as he held his hand out for Crowley to lick clean. Never one for consumption unless it truly satisfied him, he saw the ravenous appreciation in that smile, in the twist of his too-clever tongue. 

Crowley pulled his cock free, and looked up with hopeful eyes, begging permission. He’d wanted this, and he’d been too afraid to ask. 

Aziraphale held his own shaft, and drew it across the demon’s lips. The sensation of sensitive flesh grazing together, combined with the low moan and sudden offering of tongue? 

“I’m afraid I’m going to ask you for one more gift, even though I hardly deserve it, and I shall take years to repay what you’ve given me,” he said.

“Yeah?” Crowley’s breath was warm and tickly over his crown.

“A key. To the front door. That is, if you--- WANT ME TO?”

Judging by how deeply he was engulfed in wet, clenching, squirming throat? Crowley wanted him to. Aziraphale left traces of his spend in the demon’s red locks as he gripped as tightly as he dared, and closed his eyes to the bliss of being wanted in return. 

Lick. Slurp. Gulp. Tug. He wouldn’t last long, but he wanted to try that bed. They had so, so much to make up to one another. And a wedding to plan.


End file.
